


Mourning Dew

by writergirl8



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Grief/Mourning, Stydia Month
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 20:19:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4235229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writergirl8/pseuds/writergirl8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not that Lydia doesn’t like being alone. During her years of not being able to spend one minute being off, being alone had been Lydia’s only solace. But now, listening to the sound of her friends having a sleepover in the distance, Lydia feels like she’s shifting in her skin. She wants to be chased down. She wants someone to find her and make her feel like she’s okay. She wants someone to make her laugh and to spend time with her. </p><p>She wants Allison.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mourning Dew

**Author's Note:**

> Written in twenty minutes for Stydia Month. Takes place in the midst of season four. Slides right into canon. Probably explains some shit.

There’s a thick, wispy fog rolling across the lake, reminding Lydia to breathe. When she releases a long breath, the puffs of oxygen join the fog in the air, slowly and steadily. This is what Lydia needs right now. Steadiness. A simple, small evening where she can be alone with the fog that reminds her of what it’s like to simply be able to breathe. 

In the distance, the lights of the lake house illuminates the rest of the pack. There’s some music thumping in the background, muted but still thrumming lightly in Lydia’s chest. If she were to turn around, she’s sure she would be able to see Kira and Malia laughing together in a window. She would probably see Scott smirking as Liam tried his favorite drink for the first time, choking because of how strong it is. And she would probably see Stiles with his arms wrapped around Malia’s waist or with his hands on Liam’s back, thumping him comfortingly as he snickers along with Scott. 

Meanwhile, Lydia is out here. 

Alone.

It’s not that she doesn’t like being alone. During her years of not being able to spend one minute being off, being alone had been Lydia’s only solace. But now, listening to the sound of her friends having a sleepover in the distance, Lydia feels like she’s shifting in her skin. She wants to be chased down. She wants someone to find her and make her feel like she’s okay. She wants someone to make her laugh and to spend time with her. 

She wants Allison. 

Sometimes, she can hear Allison’s voice mixed up with the other voices that clutter themselves inside of her head, all pushed up against each other. Sometimes Allison wades through the throng, a smile in her voice despite the fact that she isn’t here anymore, and Lydia can hear her whispering platitudes. It’s going to be okay, Lydia. You’re okay. You’re not alone.

Lydia knows that Allison wouldn’t lie to her. But she also knows that she is fully capable of making this all up. That this could be wishful thinking because she is never going to let go of Allison, never going to stop missing her, and Lydia wants her so badly that it is a constant ache in her stomach. She feels like a child whose security blanket has been wrenched violently away and torn into pieces. She’s never getting it back. 

Allison is never coming back. And Lydia is alone with her lake house and her lake and the stars that aren’t quite as brilliant as the smile Allison would give Lydia when she said something particularly witty. 

“It’s really beautiful out here,” comes a voice, and Lydia physically startles at the sound of someone who is neither her or Allison. “I mean, if you like bugs and nature and stuff.”

She laughs slightly, bitter and quiet, as he comes to sit down next to her, whiskey eyes searching across the lake. 

“After what happened last year, I don’t think any of us like bugs.”

“Just flies,” Stiles replies, his voice thick with shame. 

Lydia nods. 

"I dream about them all the time."

He doesn't reply, and she knows that it's because he doesn't sleep anymore. He doesn't have to tell her. She knows. Sometimes, she can feel the exhaustion rolling off of him in waves and wonders if it has to do with their tether. Because there've been moments when his hand has been on her arm or he's accidentally bumped into her, and she's suddenly felt the weight of heaviness that seems to surround him like this fog is surrounding her lake. 

They sit in silence for several moments, Stiles, for once, not jostling his body in every direction. He is perfectly still as they breathe with the lake, their hands drawn in close to their bodies, arms locked tight. Before, they had been able to stretch over each other, a tangle of arms and legs and the occasional awkward elbow. Lydia hadn’t had a problem with grabbing his hand or nudging his foot with hers. Now, she would never touch him on purpose. Their easy, absent exchanges have vanished in the wake of Malia Tate’s appearance. And when Stiles is this still, it means that he is truly paying attention to everything that is happening in this moment. He’s paying attention to things as simple as the breaths he takes. And Lydia thinks she knows why. 

“You want to talk about it,” she says, and even though it isn’t a question, he shrugs. 

“Not at all, actually. You?”

Lydia stares down at her interlocked fingers. 

“No.”

“Cool,” Stiles replies, nodding to himself. “So I’ll start.”

She glances over at him, hoping to scare him off with the disdain on her face, but Stiles just stares at her, expressionless for once. Maybe this is too hard for feelings. Maybe feelings are impossible here because it means too much to the both of them. 

“Stiles-”

“I killed Allison.” He says it too loud, and the words echo across the lake, slapping Lydia in the face as they boomerang back towards the two of them. Stiles winces as he hears his own voice saying it, perhaps for the first time. “I killed her. It’s my fault she’s dead.”

Lydia nods. 

“I know.”

Her words aren’t supposed to sting, and she doesn’t think they do. Stiles just nods, accepting them as though they’re sinking into his skin, easily and silently. 

“Everything that happened last year-- Aiden, Allison-- it was my fault. I opened that door and I wasn’t good enough to close it.”

Lydia squeezes her eyes shut, momentarily blocking herself from the solace of the lake.

“It was our fault. We both opened that door. We both paid for it.”

She doesn’t know who has it worse, and she doesn’t want to play that game. Lydia lost people that meant so much to her. Stiles lost pieces of himself. 

“I tortured you,” says Stiles, voice quiet. 

“And yet you’re the one that can’t look at me.” 

He snorts. 

“I can’t believe you can even look at me.”

The answer isn’t something that Lydia even has to think about. 

“It wasn’t you,” she says. “That’s why. Because he didn’t look like you. He didn’t move like you. The way he spoke was all wrong… I was looking at him and missing you.”

She thinks that Stiles isn’t breathing anymore. 

“I’ve been right here,” he says, voice pained as he tries to make light of it, because behind them there is a house full of teenagers and Stiles’ girlfriend is among them, drinking and dancing and wearing an outfit that Lydia had picked out for her. 

“No you haven’t,” she responds, “but that’s a completely different thing.” 

When Stiles throws a pebble at the lake, it ripples out, creating a bullseye at the point where the pebble has landed. 

“So you noticed.”

Lydia nods. 

“I noticed.”

He takes a long time to answer, and she thinks he’s mulling over his words carefully until she turns and sees him pinching the bridge of his nose, his face crumpled. 

“Lydia,” Stiles says. “I killed Allison.”

Two angry swipes at his eyes are all it takes to get the tear tracks to vanish as though they’d never been there. As if this moment is gone. Stiles stands up and shakes his hands as though throwing the droplets of water into the lake. 

“Wait,” Lydia says, because even though Allison’s absence has been choking her ever since her best friend died, she can’t leave her other best friend like this. “Stiles, wait.”

And Stiles Stilinski, who has never been known to deny Lydia anything, shakes his head, sniffing briefly. 

“I can’t right now, Lyds,” he says. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

He doesn’t.


End file.
